Chapter 38
Westley and his sisters were marched straight to the president’s house, four mortal guards for each Fae, all armed with those unfamiliar weapons.
They were led through the stone house and down a narrow hallway lined with unmarked wooden doors leading to unknown rooms. It was a labyrinth, twisting and turning. An old trick designed to disorient them—Westley hated that it was working.
If he needed to escape, he’d have no idea how to get out.
Their guards stopped outside a nondescript door and shoved them inside. The room opened up to a thickly carpeted office, guards lining every inch of the walls.
Instinct took over and Westley catalogued the items, looking for anything that could be used as a weapon. Garish gold knick-knacks sat on dark bookshelves, good for throwing. The books themselves, though Westly abhorred the idea, could pack a hefty punch if needed.
Guards were armed with swords and large guns that were foreign to him. In any other circumstance it would be easy to overpower the mortals and confiscate their weapons.
But a cold shiver ran down his spine as something thick and oily coated his skin the deeper they went into the room. His magic felt further away than ever, his muscles weak and tired.
President Langley sat behind a large black stone desk in the middle of the room, arms crossed, eyes sad.
He straightened in his seat as North, Easta, and Westley were lined up in front of him.
Westley had no idea where they had taken the other Fae.
Last he saw, Brenna, Viggo, and Noren they were being steered down a separate hallway.
“This visit is unexpected,” the president began coolly. “And without your parents.” He spoke to them as though they were faelings and not centuries older than him. If he meant to disarm them, he’d failed.
“They do not know we are here,” North said, her voice calmer than Westley’s would have been. As future queen of Idavoll, she had mastered diplomacy.
“They have been notified.”
“How?” Easta asked.
“That is not your concern, Princess,” President Hugo said, tone unforgiving and eyes full of hatred. Wasn’t Midgard supposed to be allied with Idavoll? Why all this hostility towards them?
He didn’t have to wait long for an answer.
“The death of our daughter has revealed that you have been conspiring not only against us, but against your own crown,” the president explained.
Shit.
“We may disagree with some of the decisions our parents make, but we are no traitors to our people,” North said firmly.
The president’s outrage rippled around the room. “And what of my daughter’s death?”
“The end of Dayana’s life was tragic, but Princess Solveig saved her from a fate worse than death.”
Hugo shook his head violently. “Those shadows were not something to be liberated from, they were a gift from the gods! You’d dare go against them?”
Westley hadn’t expected this line of questioning. If he recalled, the mortals worshipped other gods—or was it only one god? Understanding dawned as soon as the last thought brought his grandfather to mind. Fucking Ragnvald.
“You know not of which you speak,” Easta said, her face reddening. This was getting out of hand quickly. It was time Westley stepped in.
“It is because of the gods that we are here,” he explained. The president turned to him, his mouth turning down in distaste.
“A bold claim from a fourth-born heir,” the president spat.
Westley went out on a limb and said, “Everything we have ever learned about the gods, everything Idavoll has preached is a lie.” The guards, who’d remained unmoving so far, exchanged wary glances.
“That’s preposterous. What proof do you have?”
“Look around you, sir. Is this what the gods you know would want for your people?” North jumped in.
“We suffer for the greater good.”
“And what is this greater good that ends with you in Hel, despite all your efforts?”
“Mortals are no longer sentenced to Hel. A place in Valhalla has been reserved for our people.”
It was becoming much clearer. Hel had been the final resting place for mortals and unworthy magical beings alike. Nothing special, but a peaceful place for spirits to reside.
But from what he’d heard, his grandfather had turned it into a place where very little rest occurred. He ruled with an iron fist, turning the lands dark and enslaving the spirits to serve his whims. And for his quest for power, it seemed.
It was cruel to promise a place in Valhalla to the mortals. Ragnvald had no jurisdiction there. Odin was the only one who could grant access to the ethereal realm.
Only those with magical blood who were deemed worthy of the gods could enter Valhalla. Mortals who had lived an exceptional life would be blessed with a position amongst the Valkyrie, or so the legends said. The elite assembly of warriors hadn’t been seen since long before the War of Realms.
“And what proof of that do you have?” Westley asked. What proof did any of them have, short of visiting the realm as a living soul? He doubted Ragnvald had granted the mortal president access.
“We made a deal!”
“With the gods themselves, or with someone claiming to speak for the gods?”
“King Ragnvald ensures the safety of our people by giving us magic!”
So the mortals thought wielding magic would allow them into Valhalla. The worthiness part seemed to have been skipped over.
Westley wondered if perhaps his grandfather really had found a way to get the mortals into Valhalla. And what were the ramifications of Solveig breaking the bloodstone in Vanaheim? That stone had allowed the mortals magic . . . He needed more answers.
His mind whirled with questions as he tried to get the mortal president to listen. “And then he turns around and enslaves you in this life and the next.”
Hugo shook his head. “You know not of what you speak.”
“I have lived it. I know what it is like to believe as you do,” Westley insisted.
The president resisted still. “You have been deceived. Loki has ensnared your mind.”
“You watched your daughter die from the dark magic that claimed her. How can you say this?” Easta cried.
“Ragnvald has ensured her spirit enters Valhalla.”
“How can you be certain?” Westley pushed. It was like speaking to a brick wall. A wave of sympathy crashed over him—this was what it must have been like when North had tried to convince him.
The president got to his feet, slamming his fists on the table. “Because I have to believe!”
North made to move towards him, but the guards closed in, pointing their weapons at her.
“I mean him no harm,” she said to no one in particular.
They did not relax their stance, but North stepped forward anyway.
“Hugo, I assure you, just as much as you believe you are doing what is best for your people, so am I. I love my parents, but they are wrong. When I become queen, you will not want to stand in my way.”
“You threaten me?”
“I am warning you. You have much to lose if you are wrong. We entreat you to think over what we have said, consider our words carefully. Please take the night and grant us another audience tomorrow, one less charged with anger.”
President Langley hung his head, the weight of his responsibilities dragging him down. Westley tensed as the president looked up with hatred in his eyes.
“Take them away,” he ordered.
The guards made to apprehend them, but Westley was prepared.
He drew forth his magic, using the renewed strength Solveig had given him to pull the moisture out of the air. Small droplets hung all over the room as the mortals gasped in surprise. Easta and North took a step behind Westley, knowing what would come next.
“President Langley, you have been lied to,” Westley said, morphing the water droplets into the image of his grandfather’s face. “Ragnvald does not seek your allegiance because he is sympathetic to your race.”
The water changed, this time creating a vision of what he knew Hel to be like—cold and barren, full of mortals.
“He only wants to control you. He has told you that magic is gone.” The water morphed again, swirling around the room, creating a bubble, caging the president and his sisters in with him.
Outside the confines, the guards exclaimed and shouted for him to halt, but they were too scared to approach his magic.
“Magic is still within us. You did not steal it. The trinkets you wear”—Westley nodded towards the stone hanging from the president’s neck—“are merely parlour tricks.”
The water closed in on them, tightening their circle, expanding until nothing but the vortex could be seen. “Our magic is buried, but it is awakening. The magic you use is not stolen but dishonestly given for a price. One you should not be willing to pay.”
As if in confirmation of his words, a tendril of shadow leaked from the president’s nose. He wiped it quickly, but not fast enough.
Westley let the magic drop. Before it splashed to the ground, he released it back into the air. “The price you’ve paid is a steep one, and it will not bring you glory in the afterlife. Only pain and suffering in this life,” he finished, taking a step back to stand side by side with his sisters.
“Please, Hugo. Please think it over,” North implored.
The president studied his sister intently, and Westley’s heart leapt. Maybe they were having an impact after all. But all hope was extinguished when his eyes went dark.
“Bring the irons,” he commanded.
Westley, weakened from his display of power, was too slow to stop them. Iron cuffs with spikes were clamped onto his wrists, cutting him off from his magic entirely. His sisters received the same treatment.
“You are no match for the weapons we have created, Fae,” the president snapped. “You will not fool me with your flowery words and magic tricks.”
“Hugo—” North tried, but she was interrupted as one of the guards yanked her out the door, dragging Easta and Westley behind her.
“Where are you taking us?” Westley demanded.
“To the dungeons,” his guard ordered, shoving him forward.
The irons dug into him, sealing his magic beneath his skin. The oily feeling lessened, and he finally understood that the president’s room must’ve been imbued with iron somehow, protecting the mortals. But it had been no match for a fraction of Westley’s power.
However, the direct contact effectively stifled what little power he had.
Alarm filtered through his body—Solveig was trying to reach out. The iron may have confined him, but Solveig was not Fae. Iron did not restrict her. And, clearly, had no effect on their bond.
He felt her react as she realized what was happening, seeing the images Westley was able to send through their connection. Her anger filled him as her magic seeped into his veins.
Energy burned through him as a flash of light exploded from where the irons pierced his skin.
The shackles were blown off and his guards flew back with the force of the blinding light.
Westley stood in the middle of the hallway, panting.
Solveig’s magic tasted like sunlight in his mouth, and his canines extended, power rushing through him as she sent more to heal him, to loosen the bindings deep within.
His magic gradually reawakened, answering her beckoning call.